


The Stroke of Midnight

by slamncram



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Biromantic Jonathan Sims, Dancing, Flirting, Friends With Benefits, M/M, POV Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Season/Series 01, Sharing Clothes, Timothy Stoker is a Shameless Flirt, Workaholic Jonathan Sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slamncram/pseuds/slamncram
Summary: Normally, Jon would have found whichever one of his assistants was currently attempting to throw him off his statement game via excessive saxophone volume and throttled them.However, it was currently, going by his watch, 11:32 PM, so he didn’t have any jurisdiction at present. It was outside work hours.Which was, likely, exactly why Tim was doing this.Or, Creative Ways to Make your Workaholic Head Archivist Boss Leave Work before the Clock Hits Twelve.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 208





	The Stroke of Midnight

There were few things that Jonathan Sims disliked just as much as being interrupted in the middle of recording a statement. That was, in his opinion, one of the infuriating things about the fact that the Archives seemed to be one of the few places in the Institute where everyone seemed to forget how to knock. Every one of his assistants had done it at least once, and didn’t show signs of stopping any time in the future. Even _Elias_ had barged in, though not in a fashion that Jon would truly call ‘barging’.

As much as it annoyed him to have the recordings interrupted by everyone from his own assistants to his boss, there was no way he was rerecording the statements. _That_ was even more of a waste of his time. He had enough to do, what with _trying_ to get the Archives in order, having to rerecord an entire statement just to edit out a three minute conversation with Sasha was more work than it was worth.

Jon would just have to live with the knowledge that it wasn’t a perfectly proper and professional archive because of that fact.

And he _would_ live with it. He was already doing fine with the little inaccuracies Tim had pointed out to him before. Those had been easily glossed over with a quick note in the actual paper file. He’d done the same with any statement where Martin had come barrelling in with his supposedly well-intentioned tea, or Elias had stopped by to ask that he be gentler with statement givers. It was fine.

One of the few things Jon disliked more than the interruptions being forever immortalized on tape, but that he was less inclined to simply _live with_ , was _any_ source of ignition in his Archive. The damn place was full of dry, brittle paper, some of it decades or even centuries old. It wasn’t the best place for people to be idly playing with lighters or striking matches.

Even if the latter _had_ been in order to light the candles on his surprise birthday cake. Nothing had happened, in the end, but it hadn’t changed the little thrill of anxiety Jon had felt in his gut at the sight of the flame deftly held between Tim’s fingertips.

There were to be no sources of ignition in his Archive. The fact that some still found their way through was only a little more frustrating than Jon knew to be rational.

Then, there came the issue at present.

It wasn’t like the Archives were a library. Not _exactly,_ and besides, The Institute already had one of those, there was certainly no need for another. Jon wasn’t sure about Gertrude before him, what _her_ policies may have been. Judging by the state of the Archives, her policies hadn’t been much. He had to expect, however, that even she wouldn’t have been completely all right and on board with music being blared through the Archives at a volume so high Jon was sure his heart had skipped a beat.

That, of course, had to be a natural reaction to rather suddenly hearing the saxophone being played. Loudly. In what had, only seconds ago, been a quiet and peaceful series of rooms, shelves, filing boxes and offices.

Jon had set a rule about this exact sort of thing. It was _just_ as disruptive as a physical interruption, if he was recording. For the others who worked in the Archives, it could be a _serious_ distraction. Thankfully, the Archives were rather well soundproofed, so it needn’t be a worry for the other departments, but that didn’t change much. Excessive volume was an issue. And, really, it was exactly professional. Jon had implemented a requirement for headphone use if his assistants insisted on listening to music while they were filing or typing up reports.

That was, decidedly, a requirement that was being blatantly disregarded at the moment.

Normally, Jon would have found whichever one of his assistants was currently attempting to throw him off his statement game via excessive saxophone volume and throttled them.

However, it was currently, going by his watch, 11:32 PM, so he didn’t have any jurisdiction at present. It was outside work hours.

Which was, likely, exactly why Tim was doing this.

Jon didn’t need to investigate very hard to know who was behind this. Martin, for all his _other_ faults, wouldn’t try this, and Sasha had checked in, hours ago, when she’d left. That only left one person.

And when Jon looked out his open office door like he was now, he could see Tim, the bastard, wide grin on his face as they made eye contact and a sugary-sweet voice crooned about being sick of a party and wanting to get away with an anonymous ‘You’.

Not particularly to Jon’s tastes.

Not that Tim cared. Clearly. Finding something to play so loudly that the speaker on his desk vibrated against the wood did not, by definition, mean it would be to Jon’s tastes.

Especially at 11:30 at night on a Tuesday.

Jon couldn’t hear Tim say the words, but he could see the way his mouth moved and recognized the expression on his face enough to know exactly what it was. He could even, he imagined, hear the exact cadence of them.

“Hey, boss.”

Narrowing his eyes, Jon flipped shut the folder he’d had open in front of him, then pulled open the drawer to his right and slid it inside. When he looked up again, he sputtered, somewhere between incredulity and amusement.

“I can’t hear you,” he said, his voice raised as he pushed the drawer shut, watching Tim.

Tim, and the ridiculous look on his face as he mouthed along with the pop song still playing loudly from his desk, his hips moving with the beat. Jon was annoyed. He _was_. Really.

It was possible that the exasperated smile he was working hard to keep from his face was making it difficult for either of them to believe that.

“Oh, is the music a bit loud?” Tim called, shimmying his way closer, nearly blocking Jon’s office door. “Seems fine to me.”

Jon shook his head.

“Why are you still here?” he asked, voice still raised to be heard over the music. As he spoke, he packed up his bag, glancing around the office to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.

He was distracted enough by that, that when Tim next spoke, his smooth tones so close, Jon jumped.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, and laughed, catching Jon with a hand at his hip as he stood behind him.

“I was – I _was_ working!” Jon shot back, extracting himself from Tim enough to sling his bag across his shoulders, the worn canvas bumping against his hip. “And that’s _obviously_ not what you were doing.”

Tim mocked shock, and caught Jon’s hand, tugging him around in a circle.

Once, years ago, Jon had sat at his desk in their old department and watched Tim do this with other researchers. He’d thought he was an idiot then.

He still did, now.

The difference was, he was one rolling their eyes good-naturedly while Tim guided him in a dance without a blueprint. Somewhere between then and now, Tim had become a friend. A friend dear enough to Jon that he’d asked Tim to leave Research and come here, to the Archives, with him.

He owed Tim this dance, in gratitude. In a way.

“I _was_ working, actually,” Tim responded, stepping forward and forcing Jon into something approaching a dip. Whatever it was, it had Jon’s bag slipping around his body, brushing the floor. “I was following up on a statement. And waiting for you.”

He straightened up, bringing Jon with him, and then out towards the bullpen where the speaker still blared on his desk.

“Wait, wait,” Jon pulled his hand from Tim’s, turning to lock his office door behind him. “And you didn’t need to stick around. I’m a grown man.”

“Well, Martin was worried, but he had to get home and check on his mum, and I thought I’d be taking care of two friends with one late night.”

Jon turned back around, nodding at the desk where the speaker was finally winding down on the song Tim had roused him from work with. There was a second of silence, but then the same song started over again, the saxophone opening still grating.

“With this? Torturing me with... ah...”

Tim smiled broadly.

“Carly Rae Jepsen.”

Jon shrugged, waving a hand. “Sure. So – ”

“She did _Call Me Maybe_? Jon, I _know_ you know _that_ one. There was a while a few years ago you couldn’t go anywhere and _not_ hear it.”

“Oh.” Jon paused. “She has other songs?”

Tim made a face that said ‘ _obviously_ ’ as he gestured at the speaker.

“Either way,” Jon said, shaking his head, clearing _that_ part of the conversation by doing so. “You call this a method of looking after me?”

Tim grinned again, picking up the speaker. He held down one of the buttons and, abruptly, the music cut off. It was so sudden that the silence was left ringing off the walls around them.

“I do,” he said, proudly. “I promised I’d get you out of here before midnight.” He made a show of checking his watch. “And with an assist from Miss Carly Rae, I _think_ I’ve managed that.”

He looked back at Jon, at his bag.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jon rolled his eyes, hoisting the bag up a bit higher on his shoulder.

“Yes, well, I can see you’re very proud of yourself for interrupting my work.” He sighed, heading past Tim towards the door out of the Archives. Tim sputtered as he did, the sound turning into a laugh as he grabbed the bundle of his own belongings – jacket, backpack – and followed after Jon.

“Interrupted your work?” he asked, falling into step next to Jon easily, his long legs having closed the distance between them. “Hardly. I was watching, waiting for my moment to strike, when you had clearly zoned out of _actually_ reading that file.”

“Oh?” Jon led the way up the short flight of stairs, towards the small entrance hall that served to welcome people to the Institute. To their right, the corridor that led to the research department was dark. It seemed, sometimes, that it had been forever since the two of them had been walking up and down that corridor. “That sounds invasive, Tim.”

Beside him, Tim shrugged. “It was for your own good. It isn’t healthy, staying late like that so many nights in a row. Or at all. We work in an Archive, Jon.”

As they crossed the entryway, Tim’s tone turned away from the playful, teasing lilt it had carried so far. It became serious, almost concerned, and it had Jon looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“You aren’t the owner of some small local business. You aren’t a CEO.” Tim pushed the door open for Jon, the wind rushing in and whipping his dark, stylishly cut hair around his face. “Hell, you’re not even the Head of the Institute.”

“But I _am_ the Head Archivist.” Jon argued, waving to the night guard, the same as Tim, as they walked out into the night.

The wind was no better when it wasn’t being tunnelled through a newly opened door. It gusted through his hair, and pulled at the chain on his glasses. The bite of it was so cold that he could already feel his eyes watering, and the sting through the thin cotton of the dress shirt he wore buttoned to his throat under his sweatervest.

“Head _Archivist_.” Tim pointed out, firmly. “But not _the_ Head. Did you not bring a coat today?”

Jon hated the tone of that question. The judgment was obvious.

Or maybe he was just sore because he had deliberately left his coat at home today, and Tim asking about it was making him aware that he wasn’t the only one thinking that it had been a bad idea.

He could have avoided Tim asking by not looking absolutely pathetic, arms wrapped tight around himself and shoulders bunched up to his ears, but that was beside the point.

“I was in a bit of a hurry,” Jon hissed, moving in the direction of the tube. The faster they – he – moved, the sooner the wind would no longer be a concern.

Until, at least, he got off the tube by his flat and had to go back out into it. At least, by that point, Tim wouldn’t be there to witness the results of his choice of leaving home without a coat that morning.

It was only a few seconds before something thick and warm was draped over his shoulders. It was followed by the sound of Tim’s backpack zipper pulling closed, again as he gave Jon a bright smile.

“You’re lucky I had that hoodie in my bag, then.” He said, easy and kind, then plucked at his jacket, zipped shut over his work clothes. “I brought it in case this old thing wasn’t enough but I think you need it more than me.”

Jon had never expected people to look out for him. He didn’t think he gave off the impression that he needed it. That illusion had been shattered by Tim, back in research, when he’d started a habit of checking up on him, telling him to stand and stretch, that he’d been in his hunched position for too long. It had continued into the Archives and the way Martin insisted on making him tea, checking up to make sure he was all right, periodically.

Now, there was this; Tim, lending him his admittedly very nice, very warm hoodie.

By now, Jon had better learned how to respond to this sort of thing.

“Thank you, Tim.”

Tim smiled, waiting while Jon put his arms through the sleeves properly before he put an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t mention it. Just bring it back sometime, yeah?”

“Oh, no,” Jon replied, boldly, zipping the hoodie shut. “I’ll be holding on to it forever, now. Obviously. You never know when I might need something like this.”

He was joking, a fact he knew that Tim understood, but the hoodie _was_ rather warm and comfortable in a way that spoke to it having been well worn in. It wouldn’t hurt to actually hold on to it for a few days longer, especially if this wind kept up.

“Forever, or at least until you wash it.” Tim mused, going along with Jon’s own joke. “I can’t say I’ll have the slightest idea on how to get the smell of Archivist out of it.”

“Rude,” Jon said, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face, nor the red from it as he continued. “Of course, I suppose that means your bedsheets must positively reek of Archivist by now.”

It was obvious from the expression on Tim’s face that he was impressed _and_ amused by the fact that Jon had been bold enough to reference what they’d done in the past. Obvious enough that Jon didn’t even need to hear the low whistle he made before he spoke.

“You have a point. They do smell pretty awful. Bookish. Nerdy.” He shook his head, feigning sadness. “It’s unfortunate. For _some_ reason, they just keep ending up that way.”

Jon hummed knowing he didn’t need to say much more.

As frustrating and stressful as becoming Head Archivist had been, Jon had been thankful to Elias for the fact that he’d let him choose almost all of his assistants. He was also very grateful that Tim had agreed to move to the Archives from Research when he’d taken the position.

Tim had, really, been Jon’s first and only true friend at the Institute. As much as Jon himself had tried to avoid becoming friends with anyone, Tim hadn’t let up, or given him much choice. Over time, he’d worn Jon down until he’d agreed to a weekend hike. It had really been more of a stroll, so deep inside London as the park had been, but it had done the trick for Tim. He’d gotten Jon’s friendship, and Jon had gotten his.

Tim’s friendship meant quite a lot to Jon.

From drinks, they had gone to spending time in each other’s flats. They had gotten to talking about themselves. And Jon had come to trust Tim in a way he trusted _very_ few people. It had led to a handful of nights in Tim’s bed, sharing pleasure. More than that just laying there, trading slow kisses and gentle touches.

Jon knew they were friends. It was always possible, close as they were, they could be more.

He also knew that something like _that_ would have to come by _his_ hand. Tim would never push. He always let Jon make those moves, and even if he asked, he never pressured him.

And if Jon was going to make that sort of move, it would require a lot of thought and a lot of planning. That was more than Jon had room on his plate for, right now. Maybe, once they had the Archives in order, it would be a much better time to think about that sort of thing.

Jon hadn’t been in an actual committed relationship since Georgie Barker. Between that, and the fact that he was now, technically, Tim’s boss, he would need to really think about it if he wanted to pursue it in the future. And that all hinged on if it was even something that _Tim_ wanted to pursue.

All of that, however, was not something to linger on right at the moment.

“Did you... want to come over tonight?” Tim asked, quietly, as they arrived at the tube station and left the bite and howl of the night’s wind behind.

Jon hesitated, thinking about it. He knew, if the answer was yes, he would be following Tim to a different part of the station, so the other needed an answer by the time they got inside properly.

He also knew it was late, and he was tired, and he needed to be rested and back at the Institute early the next morning. Even if it was just to share Tim’s body heat and use him as a pillow, it would mean the whole dance of getting to Tim’s, which was a little farther away than Jon’s flat, and then getting to bed, laying awake for a few minutes, chatting.

And Sasha was entirely too observant. The others working at the Institute may not notice that Jon’s clothes would be the same tomorrow as they had been today, but Sasha would. It was even possible that Martin might.

No. It was better to keep those nights to the weekends, when they didn’t risk having suspicions and questions about their ‘inappropriate boss-assistant relationship’ come up in the aftermath.

“I think I’d probably best head home tonight, Tim. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer.” He stopped, stepping off to the side, into the alcove Tim guided him towards so they wouldn’t be in the path of anyone else headed to their trains. “Are you sure you don’t want this back?”

Tim smiled, looking from Jon’s face to where he was pinching the grey hoodie in his fingers, and back up.

“Keep it. You’ll need it for the walk to your flat. And it looks good on you.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Your flattery isn’t going to make me change my mind, Tim.”

“Not trying to change your mind.” Tim answered, softly. Jon looked up, meeting his eyes. The station was already quiet, but when Tim leaned in, Jon was sure everything went dead silent.

There was nothing to distract him from the soft, undemanding press of Tim’s lips, and the way his arm curved around the small of Jon’s back, bringing him that much closer. Jon went willingly, returning the kiss like it was any of the ones they had shared in the dark in Tim’s bed.

And then, as quickly as it had happened, it ended, Tim leaving one more kiss on Jon’s cheek as he pulled away, let Jon go.

“It really does look good on you.” He said, quiet. “Get home safe, Jon. Let me know when you make it so I can be sure of a job well done, yeah?”

“I’m not going to get lost,” Jon replied, grinning, watching Tim walk away backwards.

“Maybe not.” Tim agreed, hands in his jacket pockets, giving Jon a smirk. “But who knows. You could get kidnapped.” Turning on his heel, Tim waved over his shoulder, heading off to catch his own train. “Night, Jon!”

Jon smiled, turning to walk in the opposite direction with a small shake of his head. “Night, Tim.”

The train, when it arrived, was hardly full. There were a few other people in the car that he chose, but no more than the usual, and no one who seemed to think he was worthy of being kidnapped. Privately, Jon thought to himself that Tim would be disappointed to find his ridiculous assumption that _anyone_ would want to kidnap him so bluntly shot down.

Making his way to the back of the car, he settled into a seat by the window and took a deep breath.

The scent of Tim came in with it. The fresh, sharp, professional smell that hung around him all the time and, now, surrounded Jon, clinging to the hoodie he was wearing.

He brought the neck up to cover his mouth and nose as he leaned against the window, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the train as it set off away from the station, swaying gently with the motion of it as the speed picked up.

Tim had told him to keep the hoodie. Even if Jon thought it to be a joke, he wondered, taking another slow breath.

Maybe he _would_ keep it.

Just for a little bit longer.

He did need to make sure it got washed, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For reference, and because sometimes we all need some of Miss Carly Rae in our lives, the song Tim chose to run Jon out of the office was [Run Away With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE2qEpkWWoQ), which is a forever bop, and I personally feel he would have vibed with.
> 
> If you'd like to come yell at/with me about The Magnus Archives and other nonsense, you can find me on [Twitter!](http://twitter.com/slamncram)


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